Happy and Glorious
by GreenVelvetCurtains
Summary: M has a very special assignment for James Bond. For Queen and Country has never been meant quite so literally. London 2012. Loosely based on the Danny Boyle short film at the Olympic opening ceremony.


He'd been summoned and was sitting patiently, hands clasped in his lap, in the chair across from M. She had yet to address him, was simply frowning as she studied him silently from behind her desk. He'd borne her scrutiny with equanimity at first, but it was starting to make him uncomfortable and James struggled against the urge to squirm in his seat. It was as if he was being appraised and, judging by the crease between her brows, was on the verge of being found wanting. Finally and somewhat reluctantly it would seem, M decided otherwise - he'd passed whatever this little test was - and pushed a dossier slowly across the desk towards him.

"007: eyes only" the cover read.

While her face remained impassive her eyes betrayed something to him. He held her gaze for a moment, trying to stare it out of her, to uncover her secret, but with little success. "Go on," M prompted, nodding towards the folder, "it won't bite."

He picked it up and opened it.

Skimming the contents, a smile crept onto Bond's face. He glanced back up at M - her expression was bland as she watched him - then returned his eyes to the paper to scrutinise it again more carefully. Oh surely not. Was she having him on, paying him back for some insubordinate cheek he'd long forgotten about? M wasn't exactly known for her sense of humour. But it wasn't April fools' day. It wasn't even April, it was the middle of July.

"This a joke," he stated, flopping the file back down on her desk. It couldn't be anything else.

M's lips twitched - she wanted to laugh, as much now as she had when the plan and its sheer audacity had first been brought to her attention. But even in the privacy of her own office in the company of her most irreverent agent she was professional enough to resist. This was a delicate matter.

"No joke, 007, I assure you."

His incredulous smile faded a little. "You can't be serious."

"It's certainly," she paused searching for the right word, before settling on, "an _unusual_ assignment." Outrageous was probably a more appropriate term.

"Tea and cucumber sandwiches it most certainly is not," he agreed. "She's 86 and it isn't even a tandem. She could have a stroke on the way down or break a hip on landing."

"I'm sure she's been thoroughly briefed on the risks, 007, and every precaution will be taken to ensure her physical well-being. Advisable or not, it isn't our place to question this decision." James could only concede a dubious shrug in response.

"Naturally you'll need to complete a refresher course." M held up her hand to shush him when he opened his mouth to protest. "I'm perfectly aware you can do it in your sleep with your hands tied behind your back - you wouldn't be much of an operative if you couldn't - but for appearances sake you'll have to attend anyway." The note of finality in her voice told him the subject was closed.

"I also expect you to study this carefully, Bond." She pulled out a piece of paper from his dossier and thrust it at him. "Read it. Remember it. Apply it as required. Practise in front of the mirror, practise on me if you like, but don't you dare screw this up. It'll make us all look bad."

'Rules of etiquette' the page was headed. The list was surprisingly brief. Bond scanned it.

_-Do not be late._

_-Curtsey/Bow your head when introduced._

_-Address as 'your majesty' first, 'Ma'am' thereafter. _(Not Liz, Luv, Maj, Queenie, etc) - as annotated by M.

_-Remain standing unless offered a seat._

_-Allow her to leave the room first._

_-Speak only when spoken to - appropriate topics of conversation if necessary _(otherwise keep your trap shut! M).

_-No touching; Gentle handshake only if she offers one._

"Is everything clear?"

"No pumping of the royal hand, got it. Or anything else presumably," he ventured.

M sighed, picked up the phone, pressed 1 and waited a moment. "Mr Tanner, get hold of 009, would you please."

She narrowed her eyes at him in a challenge and James held up his hands in surrender. "I'll behave," he whispered, "promise."

"Never mind, Tanner." She replaced the phone on its cradle. "Do not break with protocol Bond, no matter how much you are tempted. You weren't first choice for this detail I'll have you know." His eyebrows arched slightly in surprise M was gratified to note. "For the precise reason that I can't presume you to conduct yourself in the proper manner. I thought long and hard about giving this to you, but since Henderson is otherwise engaged at present you were next in line.

"Is that reason for the hesitation just now?"

M nodded. "You have something of a reputation, James, whether you think it's deserved or not. You're the best we have as you very well know, but I don't trust you as far as I can throw you when it comes to the opposite sex. However old she might be. Don't try anything on, for God's sake. You feel the urge, resist it. One hint of a misplaced flirt and they'll have my head. And I'll have yours in return. Along with your balls," he shifted slightly in his chair, "and any other body part I deem appropriate. Make no mistake, Bond, one wrong move and you will see out your career pushing papers at a cubicle desk in the basement wearing a polyester suit from Primark." She glowered a little in an attempt to cow him. "Behave yourself."

"Yes ma'am."

"I suggest you get to your tailor on the double and order a new dinner jacket. It's black tie and I don't want you to let the side down by not looking your best. I don't need to tell you how important this mission is."

"No ma'am."

"All right then." M relented, deciding he'd been sufficiently warned and let herself relax. "She can be tremendous good fun, I've heard."

"She's a game old bird, I'll give her that," he agreed, smiling wryly. M pursed her lips at his crass assessment, accurate though it was.

"Well, good luck 007."

"Thank you."

She nodded. "That'll be all."

He gathered his file and headed for the door.

"This isn't something you can afford to fuck up, James." One more reminder couldn't hurt.

"You've made that abundantly clear."

"Because if you do..."

"I won't."

"And I don't need to remind you, not a word of this to anyone."

"Of course not."

"Because if the press gets wind of it-"

"They won't!"

There really was no turning back now. "All right, off you go then."

"Thank you, your Majesty." He bobbed a curtsey, then ducked out the door smartly before whatever she tried to fling his way had a chance of hitting him.

***007***

Two weeks later an unmarked black London taxi ferried him down The Mall, round the Victoria memorial and into the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

Once delivered to the appropriate side entrance within the courtyard, Bond strode briskly inside and up towards the family's private apartments. The crimson carpet was pleasantly spongy beneath his feet.

He hadn't met the Queen, his CMG having been awarded by a lesser member of the royal family some years earlier. And while he wasn't nervous about it, he also couldn't pretend that the slightly elevated rhythm his heart beat out was nothing more than the result of the several flights of stairs he'd just climbed. It wasn't every day you accompanied the monarch to the Olympic opening ceremony.

A couple of corgis joined him as he walked along the upstairs corridor, escorting James on his way.

He was impeccably groomed, coiffed, primped and Savile Row'ed to within an inch of his life. Bow tie perfectly level, shoes polished, not a hair out of place for M to grumble about.

The helicopter was ready, the parachutes - complete with Union Jack canopy - checked and double checked.

He'd never even considered the jump going awry. That was the easy part.

He ran through the rules one last time in his head as he approached his destination: stand, bow, "your Majesty". No talking, no pumping, no letting down the boss.

The attendant footman, a severe-looking beanpole of a man, let him into a large, elegantly furnished room that was bathed in late evening sunshine. He announced 'Mr Bond, your Majesty' and remained discreetly near the door.

The lady in question was sitting with her back to him at a writing desk, pen in hand, and did not turn around.

Bond stood.

He waited.

He didn't speak.

She ignored him.

It felt like home.

Now what, James wondered. The tips of his ears were starting to turn pink.

As the grandfather clock chimed half past 8 - he was punctual, tick - he cleared his throat. Ahemming the monarch wasn't on his list of don'ts. Moments later she lay down her pen and rose to greet him with a slight - conspiratorial? - smile.

He was immediately reminded of M. She was deceptively sweet and innocent looking, like any other elderly grandmother, but there was a steel and spirit in her blue eyes that belied her innocuous appearance. He suspected as well that, just like M, she too could make grown men cry if she wanted - and quite probably had.

"Good evening, Mr Bond."

He inclined his head slightly, "Good evening, your Majesty," and half-smiled back. She was the real thing and not an elaborate joke on him.

James turned on is heel and followed her out of the room.

***007***

Half an hour later he was suddenly glad he was heading on an early flight to Istanbul to help Ronson retrieve an invaluable hard drive in the morning. He wouldn't be seeing M again any time soon. He might even decide to take an extended holiday when the mission was complete.

He'd performed his duty perfectly. He'd bowed and scraped, spoken only when spoken to. His topics of conversation were nothing if not appropriate - the bashful English summer, the dogs. No unfortunate mentions of Charlie boy or Phil the Greek. He'd even been circumspect in his replies to her queries about just what _exactly_ James Bond did for MI6. He hadn't touched - other than to ensure she was securely strapped in. He hadn't flirted.

Nevertheless, M'll want him shot, even if this wasn't his fault.

The Beeb presumably had the courtesy to cut away from the unfurling drama, or at least to focus only on her face. Everyone else in the stadium armed with a camera phone, probably not. The fallout will be massive.

His role was escort, protector, muscle. Not stylist to her Majesty the Queen. It wasn't in his job description to spot the potential for the mother of all wardrobe malfunctions. Men never really noticed such things anyway, he rationalised. Well, perhaps he did notice, but it was too late to say anything by then. And honestly he'd rather assumed she'd be keeping her knees together.

Yes, it's entirely someone else's fault - probably several someone elses', he's at the very bottom of this particular food chain - that the world's media had their collective lenses trained unswervingly up the salmon pink royal skirt where the royal knickers were on display for all to see.

* * *

So it didn't really end that way, but if she had parachuted in wearing that dress it might well have done! If you haven't seen this little film, go and Youtube Bond & the Queen right now. :)


End file.
